


BITE

by JennaSaisQuoi (ScarletTyler)



Series: Blue Neighbourhood [2]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, BDSM, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, dom!thranduil, sub!Bard
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-17
Updated: 2017-05-29
Packaged: 2018-10-28 15:04:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10833711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarletTyler/pseuds/JennaSaisQuoi
Summary: Thranduil has yet to recover from being thrown off balance by a one-night stand that should have ended as such. Taking notice of his recent odd behavior, people around him give their unsolicited advice. Should he listen to those he has known all his life or should he put his faith on a relative stranger that made him feeltoo much?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So kiss me on the mouth and set me free  
> But please don't bite
> 
> -[BITE](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fLuWMOF6vOU) by Troye Sivan

Arathorn didn't know what to expect, but it certainly wasn't this. He had been in the BDSM scene for years now, starting out as a Dom before eventually discovering the wonders of being a switch. Costumed sex clubs, 1970's-style swinger parties, underground orgies. . . He had done them all and then some more. Not a single one, however, prepared him for the VLNR.

Stylized as such, but read as 'Valinor', the five-story gated estate—an hour away from the nearest city—housed a private club for those seeking sexual enlightenment. Nobody could say for sure what the word actually meant, but his friend and mentor, Elrond, said it roughly translates to 'Heaven'.

_'And it sure lives up to its name.'_

Instead of the throbbing, obnoxious neon lights, an ethereal glow—golden and silvery—bathed the long, marbled corridors on either side of the lobby where Arathorn stood, eyes wide in marvel as he waited for his mentor to show him around. Unfamiliar to his ears, he picked up strains of New Age music, a stark contrast to the usual house mix played in clubs he had been to before. If he didn't know better, this place could easily be mistaken for some high-end retreat house, reserved for the select few that passed their rigorous vetting process.

If not for Elrond's invitation, he wouldn't even be here tonight. It might be his first and last time here as well. Twice a year, VLNR would open its doors to the people invited by their members and grant a special but all-too-fleeting peek into their highly exclusive community. A preview of sorts that only heightened the legend of this place.

A personal application would then be sent by a guest aspiring to be part of this scene. Some ended up in the waitlist of around 500 people. A majority were rejected upon a closer look of The Council. Elrond was a member of that elite circle, which may increase Arathorn's chances of passing the series of background checks and required health inspections. There had been also rumors of applicants being filtered based on their appearance and affluence. The Council was by no means the owners of VLNR. Management, Elrond had clarified; in-charge of everything going on in the club for the actual owners rarely took an active part in their operations.

"Arathorn Dunedain?"

He turned towards the voice and saw a tall man, clad in a gray high-collared robe, approaching him from the corridor to his left. The stranger's long, dark hair was pulled back from his face in a neat half ponytail, giving the impression of a stern, no-nonsense kind of man.

"Who's asking?"

"I am Lindir," the man replied with a small bow of his head. The gesture could be considered as odd had it not been for the overall aesthetics of the club. "Lord Elrond's assistant. He is occupied at the moment, so he sent me here in his stead to be your guardian for tonight."

Arathorn blinked. "Guardian?"

"Guardians rove around VLNR to ensure all guests are safe and abiding by our Code of Conduct. But since you're a special guest of Lord Elrond, I will personally show you what we have to offer and answer any question you might have along the way."

The invitation did mention something about an orientation. He should have probably read through the whole thing though. "Uh. . . Okay, thanks."

"Very well, then. Let's begin with the Code of Conduct." Lindir waved an arm towards a large archway at the end of the corridor to their right. "Follow me."

Arathorn listened with one ear as he viewed the large paintings adorning the walls. No objects or persons. Just splashes of evocative colors that whispered stories as they walked past them.

"We rarely host events that are open to the public," Lindir said, hands clasped behind his back. "In respect to the Code, the members are responsible for their respective guests. If the guest misbehaved under their watch, it could not only cost their membership but tarnish their reputation as well. And you should know, reputation is everything for a place where trust and consent are of the utmost importance."

Arathorn took note of the man's stiff tone. "Don't worry, Lindir. I learned everything I know from Elrond himself."

Lindir didn't respond but his shoulders relaxed for the tiniest fraction of a shrug. Arathorn counted it as a minor victory.

At the end of the corridor stood an archway that led to a massive hall. From the outside, he could see ceiling-high windows overlooking the manicured garden on the grounds below.

"The Gardens of Lorien can only be viewed from here," Lindir said with a hint of a grin on his face. He must be fond of it, observed Arathorn. Curious about the garden, he entered the room ahead of his companion, only to be stunned speechless by the sight that greeted him.

There must be some truth to that rumor, after all. _'VLNR only accepts beautiful people.'_  And by beautiful, he meant the jaw-dropping, out-of-this-world, pinch-me-in-the-arm-am-I-dreaming kind of beauty. The lighting, low and intimate, enhanced the scene like some sort of photoshoot for the cover of those posh magazines he never bothered to buy. Plush armchairs and love seats were arranged around a tiered fountain that bore floral accents along its curved edges. Multiple streams of water cascaded down to its base, which—coupled with the soft strum of harp playing in the background—created an incredibly soothing and relaxing ambience.

"VLNR is not just a place for sexual gratification." Lindir stood beside him, eyes scanning the crowd. "In this room, members could meet other people with similar interests, dreams. . . desires. A life well lived beyond your kinks is one of the criteria for getting accepted here."

Arathorn snorted. "In short, no boring people allowed."

"That's one way of putting it."

Men and women socialized in small groups around the room as people dressed in gray robes—similar to Lindir's—went about their duties. Efficient and unobtrusive, they refilled drinks from the small bar to the side, and collected soiled plates and crystal glasses as they threaded their way between groups. Arathorn wondered if he would be welcome to go and chat with the members, and Lindir seemed to have read his mind. "We could come back here after the orientation. There's plenty more to see."

"Okay." He would definitely come back later.

They marched along the side of the room, across the wall where more paintings hung though this time featuring landscapes of great, ancient forests. Raised to love the outdoors and everything in it, he vowed to take a closer at each one upon his return. A tinkling laughter from a nearby group caught his attention. Jet black hair, violet eyes, and red lips curved in a perfect Cupid's bow. Her sheer floor-length dress left little to the imagination. Wrapped around her left wrist, a couple of metal bands—white and green—clashed with the look she was going for. Next to her, a man sported the same metal bands, though his were black and red. Scanning the room, he noticed everyone wore them albeit in various combinations. His gaze zeroed in on the yellow metal band on his own wrist. It was sent to him a week prior to this event, along with the formal invitation, a set of directions on how to get to the club, and the official dress code. He supposed that the different color identified him as a guest. "Those wrist bands they're wearing," he whispered to Lindir, cocking his head towards the group instead of pointing a finger. "What do they mean?"

Without breaking his stride, Lindir explained, "Green means that the person is free to play with anyone. Red means they're with someone already. There are some reds who allow others to join them but again, only when all parties have expressed their consent to group play." Another archway loomed ahead of them, leading to another corridor. "Black is for Doms, white for subs, while switches wear gray."

Arathorn glanced back and searched for the gray wrist bands he had missed. _'Ah, there's one over there.'_  There were even some people wearing yellow bands at a far corner of the room, guests like him who had already finished their orientation. To Lindir, he muttered, "Why couldn't the other clubs do the same? Easy to remember and what a time-saver."

"Perhaps you're just going to the wrong places. I've been to other clubs with a similar tagging system."

Maybe. "You'd have to give me a list, then."

The harp music faded away as they made a right turn, walking past another room with panels of thick glass serving as its walls on the side adjacent to the corridor. An attempt to soundproof the room, no doubt, but Arathorn could still pick up the low thrum of live music playing inside. Energy ran high as people sway and twirl and gyrate in time with the beating of the drums. It may be a far cry from the relaxed atmosphere of the gardens, but Arathorn felt the same undercurrent of open desire, flowing from one person to the next with each graceful snap of their hips. Aside from the brief glimpses he got, he couldn't see much from the outside. To his dismay, his companion had not shown any sign that this was their next destination.

"Nessa's Hall is for merriment and revelry. There's not much to tell about it. What you see is what you get." Lindir made another sharp turn to the right, sparing not even a single glance at the said room.

_'Not his favorite, then.'_

An elevator awaited them at the end of the corridor. Pressing number two, Lindir arranged the fold of his robe with a flick of his fingers. "Our next stop are the Fora of Aule. VLNR is not just about the introducing new experiences. It's also about teaching how to recreate the experience by yourself." The elevator pinged, signaling their arrival. Lindir wasted no breath and continued his explanation as they walked down the passageway. Another New Age song filled the air, much like in the corridors below, so Arathorn supposed that this would be the standard all throughout the club.

"This floor is dedicated to learning the crafts and skills needed for a more elaborate and satisfying scene. Not every member is as experienced as the others. So, every week, classes are held on just about anything. Last Saturday, it was all about fire play. What precautions to take, which props would work best. We always try to make it a hands-on experience for everyone, and members are free to ask their questions after the demonstration."

Arathorn used to attend whatever free class he stumbled upon. Quick half-hour discussions on the basics of BDSM and certain kinks that were 'popular' at the time. Most were held by clubs to draw in the crowd; as such, it wasn't educational for those actually engaging in BDSM like himself. Still, they were entertaining at best, and a good way to meet like-minded people. In fact, that's exactly how he first crossed paths with his mentor.

Lindir stopped in front of an imposing wrought iron door, designed with intricate swirls and curves over its frosted glass panes. "Ah, we're too late." He pushed the door open and peeked inside for a second. "They're in the middle of the class already. A quick look around should be enough." He turned back and faced Arathorn. "Please, don't disturb the class in any way. Don't even try to participate. Five minutes and then we're off to the next floor. The instructor tonight does not suffer fools gladly. He might even call you out for trespassing if you'd get on his nerves. I've seen it happen before."

Arathorn knew well the type, so he nodded his head in understanding right away. It's just too bad he couldn't witness a true expert at work from start to finish. Satisfied with his reaction, Lindir opened the door again and ushered him inside. 

Arathorn was stunned for the second time that night. _'Damn.'_ If those people from earlier were beautiful, then the fair man surveying the work of his students from atop the platform was. . . perfection. Except, no, calling him perfect didn't sound right at all. 

_'Because perfect is boring.'_

_'Because perfect is static.'_

_'Because perfect is somehow. . . inadequate.'_

Lindir stepped towards the shadows, away from the group of Doms and subs attending the class. No one noticed their intrusion, or maybe they just didn't care. Arathorn followed him, questions threatening to spill from his mouth at any moment.

"Who's he?" Arathorn whispered, staring at the man like a masterpiece that he certainly was.

"That's the King."

"Is he one of the owners?"

"No, it's a title he had earned for himself around here." Lindir grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him back further into the dark corner. "He's one of the club-sponsored instructors, mainly for impact play, orgasm denial, and his personal favorite, Shibari. He teaches other topics too upon request, that is if he's in the mood to help out."

"He's not employed here?"

"It's more convenient to get help from the members themselves. They do get paid for their time and effort, but it's a minimal amount, and frankly, they don't really need the money. It's just for formality's sake."

"Rich and beautiful. . ." Arathorn managed to wrench his attention away from the platform and fixed it back to his companion. "The rumors are true, I suppose."

Lindir gave him a noncommittal shrug. "You cannot expect people to pay the premium price if they would not be getting the best of the best."

Arathorn gaped as he processed this almost-confirmation. "Then, _why_  the bloody hell am I here?"

"I've been asking myself that question too."

Arathorn wasn't quite sure if that was a dig on him or if being surrounded by these people overwhelmed Lindir as well. Either way, he couldn't care less right now. The King's mere presence commanded the full attention of his audience, and Arathorn was more than willing to comply.

Looking up at the King, Arathorn recalled how, in the wild, some creatures used their inherent beauty to lure unsuspecting prey. Dangerous yet irresistible. This man had the same effect on him, and most likely, many others. His skin practically glowed against that tight, inky blue shirt, whose sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, granting them a view of the sinewy muscles of his long arms. Lithe yet broad-shouldered, the King towered over them with his haughty features set in an expressionless mask. White gold cascaded from the crown of his head down to his slim waist, mesmerizing even from afar. And his eyes. . . _damn_. His ice cold gaze exuded pure control, marking all movements in the room like a tiger ready to pounce at a moment's notice.

 _'That's it.'_ Vicious and beautiful and complicated like that majestic beast. He was not here to be anyone's friend. He was here to claim what was rightfully his.

Arathorn wanted to prove that he could be worthy of the King's attention. He had wanted so little for so very long, and—

"Are there any questions?"

His knees buckled at the sound of the deep, velvet smooth voice. A murmur of 'none' and 'we're okay' from the crowd snapped him out of it. He swallowed and tried to compose himself with a shake of his head. Forcing his gaze away from the King, he noticed a couple of men in gray robes wandering around, checking if each pair had indeed followed the King's example. It was only then that Arathorn studied the red-haired woman standing beside the King, bound by a simple ladder tie that trailed up her arms, forming a small 'v' down by her wrists. _'A beginner's class, then.'_

The King then glanced down at his model before whispering something to her ear. Her face was serene while her eyes appeared to be glazed over by the beginnings of her descent to the subspace. "If done well by the Dom and the sub truly appreciates the art of Shibari," the King began, drawing everyone's attention back to him, "then every twist of the rope could bring about both pleasure and pain. A knot could be a punishment on its own, but applying the right pressure could turn that same knot into a reward." A moan escaped the woman's lips when the King illustrated his point by slipping a finger under the knot near her elbows.

At that instant, Arathorn burned inside, wishing he could take her place beside the King. Maybe he could—

"Let's go." Lindir pulled him back to reality with a tap on his shoulders. "It's been more than five minutes already."

"But—" They were just getting to the good part.

"The sooner we're done, the sooner you could return here."

Sighing, Arathorn took one last yearning look at the pair before stalking out of the room behind Lindir. The rest of the orientation blurred together into one surreal experience. One moment, he was being introduced to an erotic sketch artist whose quirky name failed to register in his mind. "For posterity's sake," the girl said with a flourish of her pen held by fingers darkened by graphite. Then, Lindir whisked him away as he was just about to peruse the drawings displayed like a deck of tarot cards. He wondered if the King had a drawing of his own as they went inside the elevator again.

The entirety of the top floor was dedicated to the Helcaraxe, VLNR's fancy version of the glass booths commonly found in pay-per-view strip clubs. Separated by large glass panels, anyone who enjoyed being watched go on one side, while those who were content to just watch but not touch could do so on the other side. Divided further into eight dimly lit rooms, anyone was free to choose whichever exhibitionism act they would enjoy the most. The one Lindir showed him featured a threesome—all women, giggling and naked save for the faux animal ears and paws and tail butt plugs. The other spectators, mostly young women too, watched on in silence, entranced by the way those ladies did acrobatics with their tongues. It was, however, not working for him, so for the first time that night, he asked Lindir where they were heading off to next.

"For those who would rather have a private scene, we have rooms available for reservation on the left wing of this floor."

Like before, Lindir explained the amenities and house rules. Nodding his head, Arathorn missed half of it though as his mind drifted back to the second floor, back to the King and his rope drunk assistant. "How long does a class here usually go?"

"Were you even listening to me?"

"Of course," Arathorn lied through his teeth. "I mean, don't you think it's useless for us to continue? As you said, they're private, and I hardly think anyone would unlock their doors for us."

"As _I said_ , the doors here have no locks installed for safety reasons." Narrowing his eyes, Lindir added, "Profound hearing problems might get your application rejected, just so you know." He then stopped in his tracks and gave out a long-drawn out sigh. Turning around, he headed straight to the elevators without another word. Arathorn barely contained himself from pumping his fist in victory.

Inside, Lindir threw a withering look at Arathorn's reflection on the elevator doors. "If I were you, I would let that urge go."

"How did—" Arathorn was at a loss for words. _'Can he actually read minds?'_

"It was painfully obvious back there. Don't start what you can't finish." Lindir's tone sharpened with exasperation. "Some Doms do have a bark that is worse than their bite, but not the King."

 _'Ah. . . that.'_ Arathorn crossed his arms over his chest as stubbornness welled up to his throat. "You know, you don't have to accompany me around anymore. Aren't we done with the orientation?"

"Yes, we are." Lindir matched the sudden hardness in his voice. "But you are still my Lord's guest. I told you—"

"It's just a class. What's the worst that could happen?" The elevator pinged, and as he made a beeline towards the King's forum, he heard Lindir utter under his breath.

"Oh, you'll see."

Except. . . there was nothing for them to see. By the time they reached the heavy iron door, both the King and his assistant were nowhere to be found. There were a couple of stragglers out in the hallway, so Arathorn manned up and ignored the dismay twisting in his belly. 

"Try the Gardens," a woman with flowing, wavy blonde locks suggested. "I think I heard him say something about a drink Tauriel owes him."

"Tauriel? The redhead?"

"Uh-huh." The blonde slipped back on the metal bands—red and gray—on her wrist. She then signaled at her companion, her back already half-turned away from Arathorn. "I'd typically say good luck, but you're a yellow. He'd be all over you before you know it." To Lindir, she said, "Keep an eye on this one. Ugh, what am I even saying? It's not like you could do anything about it." Shrugging, she left with her companion and threw a 'see you around' over her shoulder.

"So. . . is he a bad Dom or what?" asked Arathorn on their way back to the Gardens. His instinct screamed at him to run away from the danger, but the King was far too beautiful to be resisted. "Because if he is, then I don't get why he's still here. You've got a million rules and—"

"Good or bad is subjective."

It was neither a confirmation nor a denial, and the non-answer only frustrated Arathorn. "I know that, but is he? I mean, by your standards."

"I don't know," Lindir replied. "What I do know is that, other than Tauriel, no existing member wants to play with him anymore." He then stopped before the archway leading to the Gardens and shared a look with Arathorn. "Do you still wish to seek him out?"

Frankly, Arathorn wasn't as determined as he was seconds ago, but then at the corner of his eye, he spotted a glint of golden hair. It could have been just anyone, but it wasn't. It was the King himself, holding a wineglass in one hand as he sat by himself on a couch a few feet away from where they stood. Their gazes locked, and a hint of recognition passed across the man's face, which shouldn't be possible. Arathorn would have certainly remembered if they had crossed paths before. The King didn't even spare him a single glance earlier. It might just be a case of wishful thinking. It might be, but then the King smirked and cocked his head to the side. _'Surely, that could only be an invitation, right?'_

Breathe, Arathorn reminded himself. He didn't have to obey—not yet anyway. But he wanted to. _God_ , he wanted to. Wearing a blood red coat that looked sinful against the exposed hollow of his throat, the King beckoned at him without moving another muscle or uttering a single word. Everything else faded into background. All of them irrelevant. All of them unnecessary. There was a darkness in the King's gaze, and it swallowed Arathorn down. Caught off guard, his only saving grace was the resurgence of that primal need to be dominated by this man and this man alone.

"Take a seat." 

The words broke the spell. Arathorn startled when he found himself standing right before the King. Suddenly, he could feel someone's gaze on the back of his head. He didn't have to turn around to know that it was Lindir's disappointment aimed straight at him. He sank down the couch without another word.

The King's heavy gaze pounced upon him without warning, knocking the breath out of his lungs. Arathorn had heard before that in order to survive an encounter with a tiger—an actual, real-life tiger—the most important thing to remember is to maintain eye contact no matter what. _'Would the same trick work on this tiger of a man?'_ The _funny_ _thing_ was he didn't even know what survival in this case meant for him. Agreeing to a one-night stand that would go down as the best fuck he would ever have? Or could it be doing a quick scene without even fucking at all? Or maybe, it's getting set aside for a more attractive, tastier prey? Whatever it was, he sure as hell didn't know what he really wanted it to be.

Raising the goblet to his pink-stained lips, the King took a sip of whatever it was in his drink. Every movement was laced with a languid certainty that he could reach out and claim anything as his own. "Are you a tourist or a prospect?"

Confused, Arathorn scrambled around for an answer. "Uh, a tourist. . . I suppose." He cursed himself for the nervous chuckle he added at the end.

The King continued to appraise him, and all Arathorn could do was stare back. "I'm Thranduil."

Heat rushed to his belly upon realizing that he was deemed worthy to know the King's true name. "Arathorn." He didn't know what else to add so he just let himself bask in that heat for a little longer.

"Of the Dunedains?" Thranduil took another sip of his drink when Arathorn nodded. "You are no tourist after all."

Arathorn still had no clue what the man was asking from him. "Does it matter?"

"No." A mobile rang out of the blue, cutting their conversation short. Thranduil reached inside his coat, glanced at the screen for a second, and turned off the sound promptly. Waving over a gray-robed woman with a tray of drinks, he returned the goblet before holding out his hand for another one. "Here, have a drink on me," he offered, standing up from the couch after a bemused Arathorn accepted with shaky hands.

"Uh, what's going on?"

Thranduil regarded him with one last assessing look, and for a second, Arathorn thought the man might be considering to take him along, wherever that may be. Sure, it wasn't safe or sane, but this man had been vetted by The Council. That could mean a lot of things, but being a deranged serial killer wasn't one of them.

The moment passed, however, without the King extending out another invitation. Instead, he buttoned up his coat and said, "I've got somewhere else to be."

"Oh." That's all Arathorn managed to say back as he watched the King crush his hopes with one step away from him after another. He remained sitting, alone and confused, until a hand tapped him on the shoulder. Lindir.

"Well, that's unprecedented. You're the first yellow to turn him away."

"What? I. . . I didn't." Arathorn's grip tightened around the goblet.

"Hm?"

Glancing up at Lindir, he opened his mouth to explain, only to shut it again. Embarrassment blocked his words, so he cleared his throat and tried again. "We were just talking when his alarm went off. Who even sets their alarm at 1am?"

"An alarm?"

"I got a glimpse of the screen, and it wasn't a text or a call. It was just a _bloody_ alarm." 

With narrowed eyes, Lindir watched the retreating form of the King. "I see."

Arathorn waited for the man to continue, but when he was left hanging, he asked, "Am I. . . missing something here?"

"Did he say where he's going?"

"No, just that. . . he's got somewhere else to be," he answered, quoting the King's last words from memory.

Lindir muttered something under his breath that Arathorn didn't quite catch. "What's that again?"

"Don't let him ruin your night," Lindir deflected.

Still reeling from this turn of events, Arathorn welcomed the words as an attempt at consolation, but the curious glint in Lindir's eyes told him another story. _'What am I missing here?'_

"Why don't we go look for Lord Elrond instead?" Lindir suggested without prompt. "You've got so much to catch up on."

Nursing a bruised ego, Arathorn agreed even though his question continued to ring inside his head. _'What am I missing here?'_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay.
> 
> I know I've taken my sweet time writing this sequel, so for those patiently waiting for it, thank you so much for the continued support <3 The rest of the fic will be in Thranduil's POV. Hope you'd enjoy reading this one too!
> 
> Comments and kudos are both welcome and much appreciated :)


	2. Chapter 2

For the third time that night, Thranduil scrolled up his inbox, skimming each text with a blank gaze. A voice at the back of his head chastised him for obsessing over time zones and disobedient men. _'How the mighty have fallen.'_ He refused to admit, however, that he was fighting a losing battle. Pathetic was the word that came into mind; starved was a close second. Another sigh passed his lips—he had lost count by now—as he pocketed his mobile again. _'He better have a good excuse.'_

To distract himself, Thranduil thumbed the ring around his left middle finger as the elevator glided its way up to the penthouse. Rose-gold with a matte finish, its simple and delicate form gave nothing away of its true potential. Unlike the ones he used to wear purely for their aesthetic value, this ring had proven to be worth every penny of his sizeable investment. _'And to think Elrond didn't want it for himself.'_

The etched bronze doors parted with a muted ding. As he stepped out, a series of crystal sconces illuminated the private landing that led to the foyer. The city skyline welcomed him through the oversized windows that switched from frosty white to transparent in the blink of an eye. To the side, the fireplace flickered to life and began chasing away the early spring chill lingering about him. Still, a shiver ran down his spine as he unwrapped the black cashmere scarf around his neck. Two weeks after his place had been transformed into a smart house, the One Ring continued to impress him as if he was seeing its magic for the first time ever again.

Of course, there wasn't any magic at play here. Years of research and innovation went into the creation and development of this technology. The One Ring was just a means to control the entire ecosystem of voice-activated devices and motion sensors, all strategically located around the penthouse. And it's not just the novelty that had captured his interest. Promising to make things more efficient, to make him feel more secure, it almost seemed like the creators targeted the market of guarded heirs with money to burn. Like him. _Especially him._

He understood Elrond's skepticism, but he didn't share them. Apparently, if a hacker broke into the server or if someone got hold of his ring without permission, then that person could track his movements or get unfettered access to his personal space. Right now, those concerns were largely theoretical, and it should go without saying that he had his people check and double check the privacy protections and encryptions used to bolster its defenses. In the end, the gains outweighed the risks by a large margin, and so he made the obvious choice. Aside from his personal use, he was also figuring out if the technology could be integrated with the various properties under the development of his company. Increasing the rents, saving on energy, providing better security—it's shaping out to be a sound business decision, day after day.

The possibilities seemed endless for people like him who imagined a life where everything was under their control. And this goal was within his reach. Almost everything inside the penthouse could be manipulated using the ring. The lights, doors, thermostat settings, water heaters, even the potted plants he had been tending to out in the balcony. Everything except for that ball of cream-colored fur that streaked past him on his way to the bedroom. The floor lamps bathed the room in warm, subdued tones as soft strains of a piano concerto filled the air. A rhythmic rasping noise disrupted the otherwise relaxed atmosphere. He knew exactly what that meant.

Lo and behold, it's his Birman cat pushing another porcelain vase off the cherrywood dresser in small, halting increments.

"Legolas. . ." 

The cat blinked its striking blue eyes at him—a picture of pure innocence except for that single paw, poised for the final nudge. Neither the warning nor the sight of his human stopped the animal from completing his objective. Gravity took over but, fortunately, the rug saved the vase from shattering into pieces. Thranduil sighed. 

As he shed off his coat, the mobile vibrated inside the pocket, jolting him out of the staring match against the cat. Finally, he thought, but it turned out to be nothing but a text from Tauriel, asking if he was still in VLNR. He tossed the mobile to the bed without sparing it another glance. "Why do you keep doing this?" he muttered under his breath, picking up the vase to examine it for cracks. Legolas ignored the question—not that Thranduil was expecting a response—and leaped down the floor instead. He nuzzled at his human's leg for a second before hightailing it out of the room.

_'What a tease.'_

Thranduil could not humor his cat's version of playing catch, however. It was already a quarter past two in the morning. Bard should be home soon. Placing back the unscathed vase on top of the dresser, he began unbuttoning his shirt as he uttered a command. "Vilya, heat the water to 40 degrees." The tinny sound of the voice assistant acknowledged him and responded, "Water heater is turned on and set to 40 degrees Celsius." As he entered the en suite, the machine rumbled in the background, confirming that his order had indeed been carried out.

A short while later, he was standing under the spray of comfortable heat, kneading the tension off his shoulders with the ball of his palm. Without anything to keep him from his thoughts, his mind wandered back to the predicament he had blundered his way into. 

Thranduil had been always been careful. Cautious, even. Truth be told, he had been burned one too many times that the thought of letting someone in terrified him. No matter how many promises they made, no matter how much time they spent with him, it always ended the same way.

And so, one day, he decided to live just for himself. 

No one could be that important in his life again. No one should have that much power over him.

Because if push came to shove, they would always leave him behind.

Whether it was a mutual decision or an awkward 2 AM conversation or a broken promise of his own volition. They always left him behind. Once, after a reckless choice that changed his life. Sometimes, after taking advantage of his generosity. But more often, after accusing him of being heartless for not returning their feelings he did not even want in the first place.

Bard would also leave him someday, one way or another. Yes, there was a connection between them—something that he hadn't felt in a long while—but when had that ever kept him from ending up alone? The more frustrating part was he still couldn't explain why he got so affected by this unassuming man. Nothing of Bard reminded him of _Her_. Not in the way the man kissed or laughed or talked.

At first glance, Bard seemed to have come from the same mold as the others. Gorgeous, dark and wild—though not in the same manner as the ones he had tamed in bed before. No, that streak of wildness within him hungered for something else entirely. Bard wanted to break free of his chains, to explore and experience life beyond his cage, to discover the man he could be after he had tasted freedom. That's how Thranduil knew; Bard would eventually leave him too.

And yet, he still wanted the wild man for himself. Even more so with each passing day. He couldn't wait for the month to be over. Perhaps, having Bard writhe and keen and plead under his touch once more would reveal the answers he had been searching for. Bard would leave him—of that, he's certain—but not until he understood how the man got under his skin.

_'He should be home by now, unless. . .'_

Trailing droplets of water all over his bedroom, Thranduil ignored the peculiar feeling in the pit of his stomach. _'Not again.'_  Bard would always text him before and after work, never failing to do so until now. Pride be damned, he broke his own _stupid_ rule and pressed the call button. _'Pick up, pick up, pick up.'_

The call connected on the sixth ring.

"Hey."

Thranduil remained silent as worry turned into something uglier, something that bordered indignation and plain annoyance over the casual greeting. 

"I'm nearly done with—"

"Where are you?"

"At the office. I told you I'm still working on that report."

The metal edge of his mobile dug deeper into his hand. "You didn't."

"I'm pretty sure I did." A shuffling noise followed, then a hushed 'shit' in the background. "Oh god, sorry. I didn't press send. It's right here, I swear. . . Wait, I'll send it now." Another round of shuffling ensued before Thranduil could stop him.

The mobile vibrated against his ear. It's useless to read it now, but he allowed himself to be mollified. Of course, this was the same man that had been making him wait for a month. The same man that had been working hard to tie up the loose ends so they could be together without reservation. Before he could think any better of it, contrition for doubting Bard replaced the bile blocking his throat. "It's fine. I should've checked in on you earlier."

A relieved chuckle, low and breathy, met his non-apology. "Couple of idiots, aren't we?"

"Speak for yourself, Bowman." The laughter from the other end lightened up the mood.

Now that they had cleared things up, goosebumps started to creep up his naked form, still dripping wet from his sudden exit out of the shower. "Hold on a sec." Making a beeline back to the en suite, he reached for a large towel and draped it around his shoulders. Then, he said, "Narya, adjust the thermostat in the bedroom to 27 degrees." After the voice assistant acknowledged the command, he went back to his room and plopped down the bed, one hand on the mobile while the other patted his skin dry.

"Still enjoying that smart home of yours, huh?"

"Every single day." Squeezing the water out of his hair, he then asked, "I should let you get back to work. Call me when you're home."

"Well, I could use a break right now." In the background, a printer blared out to life. "D'you want to Skype for a bit?"

"Wouldn't you get in trouble for that?"

"Aside from the cleaners, I'm the only one here at this time. We're good." 

"Alright. Give me a minute though. I just came out of the shower."

Bard responded with a pleased groan that went straight to Thranduil's cock. A promising development for a night that started otherwise. As he put on the black satin robe, an idea began forming in his mind. Twisting his damp hair into a loose side-bun, he entertained these heated thoughts and let them smolder with each passing second.

Thranduil desperately wanted to tie him up. Leave him helpless and make him come until all he could do was lay there, trembling and moaning. Again and again and _again._

The all-too-familiar upbeat tune of an incoming video call dragged him back to reality. A jarring reminder that they were literally oceans apart. That a seven-hour time difference could only afford them a tiny window of opportunity. That every second counted as much as every word exchanged. He accepted the call without further delay.

"Hey there, beautiful." Warm eyes, warm smile. Well, there may dark bags under those eyes but Bard still appeared to radiate with unspoken excitement.

Thranduil rewarded him with the grin reserved for a select few. Under layers of concealer and powder, he bore the same bruises though he did not care to hide it from Bard. After all, face masks and eye creams could only do so much. Every day, for the past week, he had stayed up until the wee hours of the morning. Seven hours behind, Bard was trapped in a nine-to-five job unlike Thranduil, who could waltz in to work whenever he pleased. It only seemed fair for him to compromise his sleep, given the sacrifices Bard would have to make just to be with him.

Sometimes, though, Thranduil would wonder if the connection he felt with Bard was nothing but an unintentional consequence of his profound loneliness. He had gotten used to being alone. _'No. . . that doesn't sound right._ ' He relished having total control over himself. Choosing to be alone was just a means of maintaining that coveted sense of peace and comfort. Since meeting Bard, however, the satisfaction he got from his solitary life had been diminishing. Things were starting to change in ways he couldn't explain. He began looking for Bard in the people around him, as if testing whether or not he could fabricate those same feelings that overwhelmed him whenever they spent time together. He couldn't, and what little certainty he had was anchored to this single thought: genuine or not, there's no turning back for him.

Case in point, he could have played with that yellow earlier— _Aragorn, was it? Arathorn?—_ but he didn't. For a moment there, the passing resemblance between the yellow and Bard had thrilled him. It was like getting a glimpse into the future. The other day, Bard had filled out all the necessary forms, indicating he was being sponsored by Thranduil. That should fast-track his application, hopefully in time for their reunion. While staring at the yellow earlier, he had imagined him and Bard doing a scene together, where he would tease the brunet in front of everyone, watch him squirm and whimper and beg for more with his gorgeous, lust-filled eyes. It was almost laughable to think of that yellow trying to take Bard's place. Well, not _almost_ for Thranduil found himself snickering without meaning to.

"What?" Bard narrowed his eyes, grinning, eager to be let in on the joke.

Thranduil shook his head, unwilling to share his brief moment of cruelty to the undeserving. "You'd have to be there." The resulting pout on Bard's lips upon being denied did nothing but spur him into putting his idea into action. "Remember when you walked away from me in that hotel shower?" he segued, feeling his cock harden under his robe. The smooth fabric felt delicious against his skin, luring his mind away for a beat.

It was captured back immediately by the lovely shade of red spreading across Bard's cheeks. "Yeah. . . Wished I had stayed, y'know, but it was getting all too much for me at that point." 

"Ah, that's a shame." Thranduil quirked his eyebrow up at this confession. Unexpected but not terribly surprising to hear. "I would've let you fuck me to the wall."

Green eyes widened and darkened in an instant. "What?" 

"A parting gift, so to speak."

"Really?" A pained expression crossed Bard's features before he dropped his head down the desk.

"I do like a cock in my ass once in a while," Thranduil countered with a shrug of his shoulders. "And I found yours to be quite delightful the night before."

Bard lifted his head up and rubbed his palms over his face. "You're just messing with me, no?" 

Thranduil may not be able to tease Bard with his touch, but his words would do well enough for now. "I wonder what could've happened. . ." Slow and deliberate, his fingers began untying the knot around his waist. 

"What're you doing?" Bard looked over his shoulder before plastering his eyes back on the screen. 

Thranduil rolled back his seat until the camera could capture his whole form. "Do you want me to stop?"

"Depends." The lump on his throat bobbed up and down, amusing Thranduil to no end. "I'm still in the office," Bard hissed though his tone lacked the shade of disapproval in his words.

"Would that be a problem?" His left hand trailed down the tented area in front of him and gave it a light squeeze. 

"Depends," Bard repeated with less conviction. "Just please tell me what you're planning to do."

Cocking his head to side, Thranduil smirked as he sat up and straightened his back. "That sounds _awfully_ like a command. Are you forgetting your place, pet?"

Bard gaped back at him, speechless. He looked over his shoulder once more, only to still find no one else around. "We're really doing this now?" 

Thranduil winced upon realizing his mistake.It's nearly three in the morning, and he forgot to ask if—no, he had assumed Bard would be a willing partner. "Forget it. Let's try again some other time."

"No, no, _please_." Bard shoved a hand through his hair, messing up the dark waves falling to the side of his flushed face. "I— I'll do whatever you want, _my King_. Anything."

As tempting as that may sound, Thranduil shook his head as he pulled himself closer to the desk again. He would never force anyone to play with him. 

"Sorry, I didn't mean—"

"Don't apologize," Thranduil interrupted, staring straight into those pleading eyes. "Never apologize for something like that. Not to me, not to anyone. Understood?"

Bard bit his bottom lip, giving away his hesitation to accept Thranduil's impromptu but much needed lesson on consent. "I was just worried we'd get caught, that's all." 

"Regardless of your reasons, no means no. You didn't want to do it, so I stopped. Remember when I told you about the subs who are afraid of disappointing their Doms? Back when we first met?" Bard nodded, his lips pressed together in a hard line. "I don't want you turning into them. I want you to be open about what you think and how you feel about whatever I'm doing to you. Always." Thranduil wished he could reach out and wipe away the worry etched on Bard's face. "I'm at fault here. I should've asked first."

A beat of silence passed, broken only when Bard cleared his throat. "Can we—" He then averted his eyes from the screen before trying again. "Can we try again later? I'll be home in half an hour, tops."

The sight irked Thranduil beyond belief. "Look at me." He waited until Bard's gaze leveled with his. If there was one thing he would teach this man before they parted ways for good, it would be the importance of recognizing his worth outside of his relationships, upbringing or whatever else he considered as valuable. "Are you asking because you want it for yourself, or are you asking just to please me?" Given his choice of words, the question was downright leading, but Bard _must_  learn the difference.

Bard shrugged, as if the answer should have been obvious. "Why can't it be both?"

The unexpected response stunned Thranduil. Of course, how could he have forgotten? _'Leave it to this man to surprise me in the most pleasant ways.'_ Bard truly did have the makings of a brilliant sub. At this moment, however, Thranduil wasn't certain if chasing after Bard had been a good decision on his part. Would the gains outweigh the risks this time around? It's hard to tell when his feelings were all over the place, but a part of him seemed to know the answer already: losing this wonderful man would utterly destroy him. If only he knew how to kiss without leaving bruises, how to love without inviting pain. If only he had met Bard before all the hurt and grief consumed the remains of the man he used to be. _'Perhaps, things could end differently.'_  

Someday, he would let Bard go, but til then, he would banish every intrusive thought to the back of his mind. He would surely face them again one of these days, but not a minute sooner.

Right now, the choice was clear. "Call me again in half an hour."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the warm reception of this sequel. I'll try my best to stick to the posting sched, but I won't commit to anything right now. Hope you've enjoyed reading this chapter!
> 
> Comments and kudos are both welcome and much appreciated :)


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